


Reasons to Propose

by urusai



Category: Naruto
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Light Angst, Marriage Proposal, Reader-Insert, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:27:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28363893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/urusai/pseuds/urusai
Summary: Shikamaru considers whether it’s time to break up or propose to her (self/reader/character of your choosing).
Relationships: Nara Shikamaru/Insert Anyone, Nara Shikamaru/Original Female Character(s), Nara Shikamaru/Reader
Kudos: 51





	Reasons to Propose

I love everything about her, except this one thing. When she’s frustrated or upset, she’ll find a way to make her problem a personal failing, not whatever the actual problem is that’s beyond her control. It’s not just the self-deprecating aspect of the habit. It’s the simultaneous audacity to think that if she were _just_ a little better, smarter, harder working, whatever personal failing she imagines the problem to be, that her problems wouldn’t exist.

The hubris grates less than the inaccuracy. What grates is the lack of emotional or situational awareness to understand that the problem is the problem and that she is not the problem. What is upsetting is that she doesn’t know how perfect she is.

“You’ve made it this far in life,” I tell her, for the thousandth time. “No matter how perfect you are, there will always be something you can’t control that will go wrong. Perfect people have problems.”

“Easy for you to say,” she snipes back. “You’re one of the perfect people. I never hear you complain about problems, if you have any. Everything is troublesome, but nothing _really_ bothers Shikamaru.”

“Of course I have problems, but bemoaning them and beating myself up is not an efficient use of time or energy,” I counter.

“I’m not _bemoaning_ ,” she insists, “I’m fixating unhealthily, and I’d appreciate if you’d lay off because I already know it’s not good for me. Some of us can’t just suppress our frustration at will.”

We argue back and forth a bit before I tire and mumble, “Troublesome woman,” and disappear to stare at the clouds. She always gives me space when I’m like this. She lets me alone to blow off steam. I love that about her, that she knows I’ll come back.

I wonder, if we’re still together years from now, will this one thing about her still bother me? Or will I be purposefully be hard of hearing when she starts to talk about herself like that? I don’t think I can imagine a lifetime with anyone, but here I am, thinking about it in my usual spot.

The air is cool, but the afternoon sun has warmed the grass at my back. This is my favorite spot in the village.

She is practically perfect, but now’s the time to back out if we’re going to break up. Mom has been hounding us to get married, even gave me my grandmother’s ring to propose with. Better to let her go now before Mom gets any more attached.

Or maybe just propose? A proposal is supposed to come with great feeling and intense emotion, isn’t it? Or is it a comfortable feeling, constant assurance, and inevitability? Maybe a proposal is appropriate because, if this is the most annoying thing about her, our life together won’t be that bad.

That’s how dad had described it, wasn’t it, before he passed? A choice that you could live with, someone you could trust. Someone whose behavior is predictable, within reason. Someone reliable. 

She is reliable. I know she’ll have made dinner by the time I get home. I palm Asuma’s lighter in my pocket, wishing I’d asked about his relationship with Kurenai before his passing. Asuma wouldn’t have put so much thought into such a decision.

Romance wasn’t what he valued in life. Or if he had, he didn’t act on it publicly or speak about it with me. Sure, Kurenai was important to him, but his focus was protecting the King, the future, Mirai and the other future inhabitants of the village. Asuma might say that romance and marriage are tools through which we protect and preserve the future. 

Asuma gave everything to preserve that future for us. As a result, Asuma and Kurenai won’t get the chance to grow old together. It’s a blessing that I will have the opportunity to propose, to marry. Most likely. The world is peaceful now, for the time being, because of his and others’ sacrifices.

My stomach begins to rumble. She’s not the best cook, but neither am I, so no complaints. She certainly puts more effort into cooking than most. And garlic. She isn’t afraid to go for it when it comes to garlic.

Eventually, I get up to wander home from my hilltop for dinner. I take the most direct path, listening to my stomach instead of my curiosity for once. I’m at the door and turning the knob in no time.

The smell I expect doesn’t hit me when I open the door. It doesn’t intensify as I draw near the kitchen. The house is empty, but for a note on the kitchen counter.

_Gone to mom’s._

Her handwriting, usually flowing and neat, is hasty and sharp. I crumple the note, toss it in the trash. There are leftovers in the refrigerator calling for a spin in the microwave.

Maybe she isn’t so reliable. Sure, she’d made and put away the leftovers, but I thought for sure she’d be here with a stir fry when I got home. Maybe it is time to call it quits.

I wonder what Chouji’s up to this evening and send him a text, hoping he will be up for a drink. I don’t want Chouji to listen to me talk about my relationship so much as I want to fill the time until she comes home from her mother’s with an activity that isn’t dwelling on her and the relationship.

Chouji won’t see it that way. I find him at the bar in a corner booth and slip into the seat across from him. Chouji is understandably suspicious and immediately demands an explanation.

“What did you do this time, and why haven’t you proposed already?” Chouji asks.

“I told her she was wasting her time being upset about stuff she can’t control and stomped off to my hilltop. When I got home, I found a note saying she went to her mom’s. Can we just drink?” I plead.

Chouji cringes, “And you haven’t proposed because?”

“I haven’t proposed because maybe it’s time we just broke up,” I say evenly, hands clasped on the table.

A waitress sets a beer in front of me and winks before she sashays away. Chouji is impossible to look in the eye. The waitress’s rear is easier to stare at head on as she walks away. 

Her face had been pretty enough. The wink was playful, at least. The switch of her hips reveals that she knows she’s being watched. Whether the show she puts on is out of genuine interest or interest in tips, I don’t intend to find out. No harm in looking.

“You’re the worst, Shikamaru,” Chouji chuckles, snapping his fingers near his own face and waving for my attention. He waits for a laugh I won’t give, as if his antics are truly funny. 

“Change of subject?” Chouji suggests.

I look up at him and raise an eyebrow.

“I haven’t told you yet, because I was waiting for Ino to show, but if I wait much longer you might be offended I didn’t just tell you first. I proposed yesterday,” he says, his smirk becoming a full belly laugh as I gape.

“Congratulations,” I say, shell shocked, “And she said?”

“She said yes,” Chouji confirms.

There is no time for new emotions to register on my face.

“You proposed?! This is a celebratory drink, then,” Ino says, slipping into the booth next to Chouji. 

Ino tends to join us for these outings, though her presence is more tolerated than welcome. Ino isn’t the most sympathetic to our romantic woes. She has judgmental older sister vibes. In Chouji’s defense, I hadn’t told him why I wanted to go out beforehand, and I certainly didn’t ask him not to invite her. Understandable that he’d want to share his big news with both of us at once.

“I’m so sorry I gave you such a hard time about coming out! You could have said something before. Congratulations! How’d you do it?” Ino gushes.

Chouji describes his proposal, the ring, and Karui’s reaction. His voice is a low humming under the rumble of guilt between my ears. Guilt and the soft yearning for freedom and the curvy waitress. A louder, more insistent yearning wishes dinner had been ready for me when I got home.

Not that I deserve or feel entitled to such good treatment. Quite the opposite. I hardly think I deserve her as it is. She’s strong and smart, certainly smarter than me. Most guys lead with beautiful when describing their significant other. I hate that. Beauty helps, but brains last longer. 

Brains are the power behind style and grace, the attributes without which beauty is useless. A funny face with character and intellect is infinitely more captivating than a gorgeous, symmetrical face on its own. That isn’t to say her face is lacking. It isn’t terrible to look at. It isn’t why I love her, either.

And I do love her. The thought of losing her makes me absolutely sick. 

“Congratulations again, Chouji. Forgive me,” I beg, slipping out of the booth and dropping coins on the table next to the beer I haven’t touched. 

“Lady problems,” Chouji says to Ino in explanation. 

Ino smiles knowingly, and reaches for the beer. To her credit, she doesn’t mouth off with any of her usual retorts or insults.

The fastest route to her mother’s house is by rooftop. The most comfortable spot on her mother’s roof is up right next to the chimney. It has practical use, too. You can hear the talking at the kitchen table below. Voices carry up through the metal flue. 

“He can be so cold, Mom,” she says. “I don’t expect to be coddled. Just give me some space and have patience. What does it hurt if I cry or scream out my frustration in the privacy of my own home? He can’t bear to see it.”

“There are worse things, darling, than a man who can’t stand to see you cry,” her mother counsels. 

“He hates to see me show any negative emotion. It’s maddening. I’m already frustrated, upset, and suddenly I’m causing trouble for him because I am allowing myself to give voice to it,” she pauses, her voice cracking. “I don’t know if I can hold in every shout, every tear for the rest of my life.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to avoid shouting my own defense down into the chimney. It’s for her own good. Wallowing never fixed anything. Guilt and self-loathing are unproductive emotions. I have heard enough. I swallow my retorts and silently make my way down from the roof. 

I pace outside on the doorstep, working up the nerve to knock. What to say, whether to end it all or pull out the ring and drop to a knee weigh heavily in the air, threatening to suffocate. The ring box and Asuma’s lighter are both heavy in my pockets with different kinds of weight. Anxiety in the ring, wistful regret weighing down the lighter.

I wonder idly whether Asuma can hear and answer me if I hold the lighter just right inside my pocket, think hard enough. _What would you do, Asuma?_ I close my eyes, come to a stop with one arm slung up on the door frame, the other in the pocket on the lighter. Have I ruined too much already? 

Peace time is the time to build the future, crown new Kings. There’s no one else I’d want by my side for that. If I proposed, she’d probably say yes. I can’t imagine she’d have stayed with me this long if it weren’t something she wanted. But the way she was crying just now, can I really be sure?

Asuma doesn’t answer, and I drop my head, producing a soft knock on the door.

“Shikamaru,” her mother doesn’t sound surprised when she answers the knock. “Come inside. You’ll catch cold on the doorstep.”

I step inside and give her mother a quiet thank you. My heart sinks when I see her tear-stained face. Her mother gives my arm a gentle squeeze and leaves up the stairs for the sake of our privacy.

“If you’ve come to chastise me for being upset,” she grumbles, “you can go.”

The seat next to her at the kitchen table is empty, and her hands are clenched in her lap. “I’m sorry,” I start, taking a seat and her hands in mine. The words feel choked and unnatural. 

Her mother’s shadow still hovers at the foot of stairs, leaning forward as if straining to hear us. Her shadow radiates encouragement. It doesn’t hurt to drape another shadow over hers to keep her hidden. With what seems to be a supportive audience, now well hidden, I continue. 

“I don’t want you to censor your emotions for me. I want you to think as highly of yourself as I do. You’re perfect,” I say. 

I could slip from the chair and down to a knee. Reach for the ring. Present it to her. Pop the question.

Or cut and run. 

What must be a few seconds in time feels as if it stretches into an hour lost in her eyes. Her face is still drawn with hurt and fury, only slightly softened by my complimentary words from a moment ago. Knowing I caused the pain written there creates a sinking guilt that weighs more than the ring or the lighter in my pockets. 

When you see an expression like this one, you don’t forget it, and you never want to see it again. The feeling it evokes isn’t the rock bottom of disappointment in yourself. It’s the knowledge that you’ve let someone down, someone who relied on you. This kind of face on a person you love can make you give up your vices. Change your life. Quit smoking cold turkey. Really, truly never drink again.

“You deserve better than this, than what I’ve given,” I start again, my voice beginning to crack. “I smoke and I drink too much. I suppress all my feelings, bury them where no one will ever see or hear them. I am critical, far too critical of you, because I love you. I lash out at you when you’re unfairly critical of yourself, which is silly really, because I’m dong exactly what I’m chastising you for doing to yourself,” I continue, “I’m truly sorry for that. You may well be better off without me.”

 _This is the part where you kneel and take out the ring_ , I tell myself. _Or end it altogether._

Or wait. 

Is this the story she will want to tell her friends? Her kids? That I would want to tell? Chouji’s proposal story, that low rumble at the bar, felt warm and happy. It made Ino brighten, and though I wasn’t listening, I was hearing, and his tone brought a smile to my face.

The tears are barely dry on hers. Still holding her hands in mine, I reach up to wipe a tear stain from her cheek. Proposing now would be selfish. We have time.

I swallow hard and keep going, “But I am better with you. Will you come home with me tonight? You can wallow and whine all you want. I want to make it up to you.”

She huffs out a laugh in spite of herself. “Wallow and whine to my heart’s content, huh?” she cocks her head at me, appraising. “You really know the way to a woman’s heart, don’t you? You think what we really want is to nag, harp, cry, and generally be disagreeable without men complaining?”

This has to be a trap. There is nothing to be gained from responding.

She continues after a few beats of silence, “Look, I just want to express myself, maybe yell, maybe cry, and then move on. It’s healthy to express feelings, even if they aren’t accurate or useful. Think of it this way— it’s a strategy I use to clear my head, the same way you go to sit and stew on your hilltop alone.”

Her explanation makes sense. It is logical. It just feels wrong because her strategy wouldn’t work for me.

“I understand,” I say simply, giving her hands a squeeze, “Did you eat dinner?”

“No,” she admits, “Did you?”

“I did, I ate the leftovers you cooked the other day. Let me take you home and fix something for you,” I suggest. I can’t expect her to accept a proposal I was hesitant to give if I won’t do for her how I expect her to do for me.

Her mother stirs at the bottom of the stairs and calls out, “Is anyone hungry? I intended to cook.”

“It’s ok, Mom,” she says as her mother pads into the kitchen. “Shikamaru’s going to cook as his penance for being a jerk. Thanks for having me tonight.”

I stand to draw her mother into a hug and speak softly into her ear, “I’m sorry for hurting her. Thank you for taking care of her.”

“Thank you for loving her so well,” she whispers back.

Her mother turns to her and draws her up to hug her. They speak quietly to each other, too. She pulls away to smile at her mother lovingly. When she turns to me, I extend my arm to wrap her shoulder and bring her close. We bid her mother goodbye and step into the cool evening air.

On our walk home, we discuss my strategy for cooking her a delicious apology meal with what we have in the fridge and pantry. There are vegetables, eggs, broth, bread, and noodles available, but she isn’t in the mood for ramen. There’s milk and cheese, too, and I suggest a pasta alfredo. That’s fine with her, she agrees, so long as there’s plenty of garlic in the sauce and garlic bread.

In the kitchen, I wash my hands and peel a head of garlic, crushing half for the sauce and mincing the other half for the bread. My kitchen knife skills leave something to be desired, but dinner gets made, and she is appreciative. 

As I watch her enjoy the meal, I suggest a picnic for next weekend. We’ll bring a blanket and a meal to the family forest. She loves meeting the deer, and the place is important to me and my family. We’ll enjoy the scenery and each other’s company.

And I will ask her to marry me.


End file.
